’Larry,’ answered Honor slowly, ’look here;’ she put her hand to a gorse bush and plucked a mass of golden bloom.
’Honor!’ he exclaimed, ’what have you done?’ She opened her hand, it was full of blood.
’I have grasped the glorious flower,’ she said, ’and am covered with wounds, and pierced with thorns.’
’No—no, dear Honor,’ he said, taking her hand, removing from it the prickles, and wiping the blood away with the kerchief that bound his broken arm. ’There shall be no thorns in our life together. The thorns will all go from me when I have you to prune me. I have been wild and rough, and I dare say I may have given you pain. I know that I have. I was angry with you and behaved badly; but I was angry only because I loved you.’ Then his pleasant sweet smile broke over his pale face, and he said in an altered tone, ’You do not harbour anger, Honor; you forgive, when the offender is repentant.’
She raised her eyes to him, and looked long and steadily into his.
’I forgive you for any little wrong you may have done me, heartily and wholly. But, O Larry! I must wrong you in a way in which I can expect to get no forgiveness from you.’
’That is quite impossible,’ he said, smiling.
’Larry, you cannot even dream what my meaning is. When you know—there will not be a flower on the furze-bush, the last gold bud of love will fall off.’
He was perplexed. What could stand In the way of her ready acceptance of him, except his own former bad conduct?
’Honor,’ he said, ’I have had some sleepless nights—these have not been altogether caused by my arm—and during the dark hours I have thought over all my past manner of life, and I have quite resolved to break with it. I will no longer be idle. I will no more boast. I will no more let the girls make a fool of me. I will work hard on the farm as any labourer—indeed, Honor, I will work harder and longer than they. If you mistrust me, prove me. I deserve this trial. My father would like you to be his daughter-in-law at once; but I know that I do not deserve you. In the old story, Jacob served fourteen years for Rachel, and I am not a Jacob—I will wait, though fourteen years is more than my patience will bear, still—dear Honor, dear heart!—I will wait. I will wait your own time, I will not say another word to you till you see that I am keeping my promise, and am becoming in some little way worthy of you. I know,’ he said in a humble tone, ’that really I can never deserve you—but I shall be happy to try and gain your approval, and, if you do not wish me to say more of my love till I show you I am on the mend, so shall it be. I am content. Put on the kerchief when I am to speak again.’